


An Apocalypse of Flesh

by Murf1307



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil
Genre: Biting, Bruises, M/M, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-19
Updated: 2013-04-19
Packaged: 2017-12-08 21:48:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/766404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Murf1307/pseuds/Murf1307
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the first attack and Eponine's death, Grantaire and Enjolras disappear from sight behind the Musain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Apocalypse of Flesh

It’s a desperate fumbling, a claiming in the dark.  Enjolras is for the first time facing his own mortality, wrapped up in the Dionysian figure of the drunk of his Amis.  He knows, now, that they are doomed to die, and he must grapple with a sudden fear of it.

Grantaire seems desperate, too, as if he fears it — but Enjolras could have sworn that the only thing the man feared was an empty glass.

But here they rend at each other’s clothes behind the Musain, only the empty wine-shop bearing witness to this indiscretion in the night, so like so many other indiscretions it has seen all through the years it stood as a place for both discussion and for drunkenness.

Grantaire kisses like they stand at the end of the world, kisses like he is Armageddon itself, and Enjolras must give as good as he gets or he will die without this and that cannot, must not be borne.

“She loved him,” Grantaire mutters between kisses.  ”She loved him, and she died for him, and he never knew.”

Enjolras feels a stone in his stomach, because in speaking of the girl so newly dead, Grantaire is speaking of himself, speaking what he can never plainly say either for loathing himself or for fear of some retribution or rejection.

He does not know how to respond, his mouth faltering for an instant, before he tells all fear to go to Hell and nips at Grantaire’s lip.

Grantaire moans, and Enjolras knows then exactly what to do — the stone melts back into the pooling, warm arousal in his gut as he presses Grantaire against the wall and parted his shirt from his breastbone.  He drags his teeth down Grantaire’s chest, his hands digging harsh into his sides.  He leaves little bites along the way before he drops to his knees entirely.

After it is over for Grantaire, Enjolras wipes his face and stands, drawing fingers up the marks he’s left and wondering what it would feel like to bear them himself.

Grantaire obliges him when he realizes, again without a word, that this is what Enjolras desires.  He presses kiss into the junction of Enjolras’s neck and shoulder, then bites the flesh there, hard.

It is good, it is more than good.

It is dangerous apocalypse of the flesh, and Enjolras hurtles himself over that precipice as forcefully as he can, snapping his hips against Grantaire’s.

 

Grantaire gives as good as he gets, and this time, he reaches release as Enjolras does, skin sticky-wet between them as Grantaire bruises Enjolras’s collarbones with his teeth.  Enjolras is silent; Grantaire again makes an almost musical moan that is almost half pain.

That is because they are going to die.

But, for a moment, it all does not matter.


End file.
